


the moment you confront the storm

by avennvares



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon Route, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Dancing, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Appearances - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Sylvix Big Bang 2020, White Clouds Route, implied Dimitri having a crush on Byleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avennvares/pseuds/avennvares
Summary: “This is your slow dance and this is your chance to transformLost in a momentThe moment you confront the storm”“It’s your turn to lead.”Shadows move along the walls as the moon rises higher and higher in the sky. Time passes minute by minute, hour by hour, but inside of the dorms, time does not exist. Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Sylvain Jose Gautier don’t exist— they shed their titles and their nobility ceases to be. They are just Felix and Sylvain, just two men who have known each other their entire lives, falling deeper in love while being oblivious to the other’s feelings. And they dance. They dance for as long as they want, because time doesn’t exist in their bubble.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	the moment you confront the storm

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! After months of writing and editing and thinking I couldn’t get it done, my Big Bang fic is here! This is not only my first Fire Emblem fic, but also my first Big Bang event ever!
> 
> Lots of thanks to my wife for beta reading at least ten times and also to @/lamb_cube over on twitter who did the artwork for this piece!

Another day at Garreg Mach; another cloudless morning with an endless blue sky and a sun so bright that students have to squint their eyes as they walk across the grounds. Peers congregate on the benches outside of the dorm room, joking and teasing each other, while others spend their leisure day in the greenhouse, dirt coating their hands as they harvest and plant. In the sky, wyvern riders circle the perimeter, keeping a lookout for any potential threats— the sound of the wyverns flapping wings reverberates through the air and echoes off of stone walls.

A breeze blows over the monastery, rippling the water in the fishing pond and the impossibly green grass near the Officer’s Academy classrooms. It moves through Felix’s hair, whispering through the loose black strands at the nape of his neck. The breeze pushes him forward as he walks towards the training grounds, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, itching and eager to use the blade. The only dance he cares about is the dance he does with his prefered weapon. When he moves across the cement of a training room, or the dirt of the battlefield, Felix is graceful, strong, determined.

For dances like the ball being held at Garreg Mach at the end of this Moon, Felix is entirely uninterested. How incredibly pointless it is for students of a knight academy to participate in a ball. All of the things going on in the world, and the Archbishop thinks they have time to have frivolous fun? After the Remire Village situation, Felix would think that the Chruch’s first order of business would be to locate the false Tomas that brought about the problem. Felix thinks angrily at the Church’s inability to address the important issues. Why weren’t more than a few sentences spared toward Lord Lonato’s betrayal? And on that issue, why hadn’t Lady Rhea reached out to Ashe and offered him an ounce sympathy after losing his adopted father? Why hadn’t she reached out to Sylvain for that matter, after the situation with his traitor of a brother… 

Not that Felix was doing any better. He can feel the mourning in the air when Ashe is around and avoids being in the same room as him. And Sylvain. Well. He hasn’t checked in on Sylvain, either. He knows about Miklan and Sylvain’s relationship, how it was nothing like the relationship that Felix used to have with Glenn. Glenn who had loved his family, his country, and his king. And Miklan, who’s love had all been replaced with hatred and jealousy— his hatred that had shown itself to Sylvain in the worst ways. It was probably hard to see Miklan after so many years. To see that ugly, disdainful sneer on a face that looked so much like Sylvain’s father’s, to see his mouth form and spit cruel words, and then to see his body be ripped apart as he became something different entirely. 

It was near impossible to shake the feeling that Felix needed to protect Sylvain; he felt it all his life. Sometimes, Rodrigue would take him on trips to Gautier territory, and Felix would watch as Miklan knocked Sylvain to the ground, or dragged him by the hair. Anger would surge through his body, make him see red. As soon as Miklan left, Felix would rush to Sylvain’s side, his face wet with angry tears. Sylvain never cried, though; a sign that he had long since grown accustomed to the abuse at his brother’s hands.

Just a week before, Sylvain had been injured in the battle at Remire Village, and Felix had to fight the urge to go to him immediately. The idiot had brought his arm up to guard himself as the enemy brought his blade down. Felix was no stranger to fear. He felt it before as a child—what kid wasn’t afraid of the dark of the shadows that danced on the walls?—but never had it gripped him as intensely as in that moment. A fear that Sylvain would leave his side, just as his brother had so many years ago. When the fighting was finally over, Felix was on Sylvain, grasping his injured arm and pulling it towards him. Sylvain had winced, and Felix had said, “Serves you right.”

As Felix reaches the grounds, he presses his hand against the door. He shakes his head, trying to clear it of thoughts of a ball or the Archbishop and her lack of tact. He gives his head a harder shake to rid himself of his thoughts of Sylvain. He doesn’t need anything weighing him down when he steps in the room and begins the only dance that matters.

—

Truth be told, Sylvain Gautier was not much of a shopper, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find the sights of the marketplace appealing. Especially when they included long legs and a soft face. And the woman he was chatting up now was definitely a looker— her fair features were decorated with freckles and shaped by curly blonde hair. He leans in to her, making the conversation appear private in a very public place, and lowers his voice. A soft wind ruffles his hair and makes her’s blow into her face, catching on her lip. Sylvain takes this as an opportunity.

He dislodges the hair from her lip and tucks the blonde strand behind her ear. Her cheeks flood with a gentle pink at Sylvain’s gesture. “Are you going to save me a dance?” he asks.

“A… a dance?” She stutters, just enough to show that she’s nervous. “Are you sure? I assumed you’d be busy with other… dances.” Other women, Sylvain thinks she means.

“I won’t be too busy for you.” Flirting is almost like dancing; one makes a move and the other follows, moves with you. To Sylvain, it’s second nature and as easy as breathing. He takes her hands in his. They’re small, soft… Pretty… Dainty. He glances down at them, at their hands conjoined. These hands have not seen battle, have not held a weapon or been scorched by magic.

Briefly, he allows his mind to wander to the aftermath of Remire Village. Sitting down in the ruined town, surrounded by fire and smoke, his hair matted with sweat and dirt and blood pouring down his arm. How Felix crouched down next to him, and how it had surprised Sylvain because Felix seemed to have been avoiding him lately. He had opened his mouth to say something, anything, to his childhood friend as Felix took his injured arm and began to clean and bandage his wound. Sylvain remembers how the feeling of Felix’s calloused hands against his skin shut him up in an instant.

He blinks, brings himself back to the present and to soft skin instead of rough. “I’ll save a dance for you, if you save a dance for me,” he tells the girl, bringing her hand to his lips and giving it a kiss. In response, the pink accenting her face grows shades darker. Sylvain takes a step back, gives her a parting wink, and walks towards the monastery. Away from her eyes, he allows his flirtatious expression to neutralize and takes a deep breath. 

His hand touches his wounded arm, again thinking of Felix. How his gaze was steady, concentrated on the task at hand. How his brow furrowed and sweat dripped into his eyes. How he spared Sylvain no words, even when the wound was properly dressed, instead getting up and walking away from him.

Where was Felix now? What was he up to today? 

Was he thinking about Sylvain, too?

Unlikely. Sylvain didn’t believe that Felix thought about anything other than swords and blades and how many hours he could dedicate to sparring with someone worthy. Which answered Sylvain’s question about where Felix was, he supposed. Where else would he be? 

That would be a way to force Felix to talk to him— Sylvain could march himself to the training grounds, pick up a training sword, and spar with him. There was no chance in hell that Felix would turn him down, because Felix wasn’t one to turn away from a challenge. And then he couldn’t run away. He’d have Felix’s eyes for himself.

Sylvain’s arm twinges, reminding him that he still had some healing to do, that he shouldn’t exert himself. And Sylvain supposes that, maybe, he should take it easy today. There was always next week to spar with Felix, if he feels like getting knocked on his ass. He smiles to himself, imaging it: the exhilaration in Felix’s eyes, a look he only got during battle, as he stood triumphantly over Sylvain. 

It makes his blood rush. 

“Take it easy, Sylvain,” he reminded himself.

Maybe he should just get some lunch…

—

The first thing Sylvain sees when he enters the dining hall is black hair, pulled up in a bun and a stiff frame. A small thrill goes through him; a thrill of seeing someone before they notice you. Maybe it’s a bit voyueristic, but Sylvain takes a moment to just watch, to take in the way his elbow rests on the table, the visible strip of skin of his neck. He can hear his heart beat in his ears. 

The dining hall isn’t crowded; it’s late afternoon, and many students have already finished up their lunches for today. The few people who are present are stragglers, chatting with their friends and finishing up their last few bites of food. The table that Felix sits at is otherwise empty.

He takes a seat next to Felix. How could he not? It’s possible that Felix is avoiding him and it’s possible that Sylvain is the last person he wants to talk to. But he sits next to him, absolutely he does. He can’t let this opportunity pass him by. 

Felix offhandedly glances at Sylvain, and then realizes who it is that just took the empty space next to him. His eyes widen. “Sylvain,” he says in a half annoyed, half surprised way. Sylvain smiles— Felix’s always says his name with a touch of annoyance. It’s familiar and almost comforting at this point.

“Felix,” Sylvain says in response, no annoyance in sight. Just light-hearted amusement.

“How’s your arm?” 

Sylvain touches it, swings it around. “Good as new.” As he says that, a stab of pain goes through him and he winces.

A puff of air blows through Felix’s lips; it almost sounds like a laugh. And Sylvain doesn’t miss the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Good as new, huh?” 

“Good as new,” Sylvain insists, but the pain has made its way to his voice, making his lie even more obvious. He changes the subject, focusing on the plate of barely touched Fish Dango in front of Felix. “Are you going to eat that?”

Felix looks down and his brow furrows. “No,” he answers. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t you need to eat to replenish your stamina?” Testing the waters, he reaches out and pinches a loose strand of Felix’s hair. It’s slightly damp. “Worked up a sweat today, huh?”

Felix smacks his hand away. 

“I’m just saying,” Sylvain laughs, “it’s wasteful.” 

“You eat it then.” Felix pushes his plate in front of him. “Since it’s so wasteful.” 

Sylvain picks up Felix’s discarded fork, and yet another thrill goes through him. He’s about to put his mouth on an object that had Felix’s mouth on it just a moment before. He looks at him, mouth slightly agape.

“What?” Felix asks. And cue the annoyance. “What are you looking at?”  
“Nothing.” Sylvain stabs the fork down and spears a ball of fish meat. He brings it to his mouth. “To not wasting food.” And he takes a bite as Felix rolls his eyes.

Sylvain is completely pathetic.

—

Sylvain Gautier has been in love with Felix Fraldarius for as long as he can remember. 

He used to wait patiently for a chance to see Felix, for him to come to Gautier Territory or for them to head to Fraldarius. Though Sylvain loved trips to Fhirdiad and seeing Dimitri and Ingrid, the personal time with Felix had always made him feel differently. It was something he had never wanted to miss, and he would pray to the Goddess weeks before their trip that he wouldn’t get sick and miss out on the visit.

When his adoration for Felix started, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was when they were as young as seven and Sylvain watched as Felix talked excitedly to Glenn, pulling on his older brother’s arm. Sylvain specifically remembered a feeling of jealousy… but he didn’t know if it was because of Sylvain’s lack of relationship with his own brother, or if he wanted Felix’s attention for himself. 

Or maybe it started when Felix dotted over him every time he was hurt. There were the instances with Miklan, of course, but there was a time when Sylvain was ten. He’d climbed a tree in the garden, trying to catch up to Ingrid. He had long since been envious of her tree climbing skills; she could climb so high with so little effort. But this time, Sylvain was determined to climb higher.

Dimitri and Felix stood below— Dimitri looking concerned, frightened, and Felix looking angry, his arms folded across his chest. “You’re going to fall,” Felix called up to them. Sylvain laughed it off, but he wasn’t laughing when lost his grip and began to plummet to the earth. Branches whooshed past him. It happened so quickly that he didn’t have a moment to think to reach out and try to stop it. When he became acquainted with the earth again, it was his arm that hit solid ground first. 

Felix immediately went to his side (Dimitri stood an inch or so back, not wanting to cause Sylvain further pain), treating him like a baby bird with a broken wing. “Are you hurt? Is it broken?” Felix’s dark eyes welled with tears, and just like that, Sylvain couldn’t look anywhere else. The rest is a blur, but Sylvain remembers Felix carrying him to the palace on his back.

Sylvain did remember, however, the first moment he wanted to kiss Felix. It happened so many times since, but that first time… They were twelve. Just a year before everything changed. Before Dimitri became filled with rage and Felix became distant. As the only Gautier son with a Crest, Sylvain was already getting marriage offers from families all over Faerghus. And because of those offers, he had begun to take dance lessons. 

“You have to learn how to dance if you’re going to get married,” Sylvain told Felix. Felix drew his arm back and let the rock in his hand fly, skidding across the pond. The sky had become a light, pastel pink; Sylvain was lounged back on the grass his elbows propping him up as he watched the clouds drift by. 

“Maybe I won’t get married. Glenn’s going to inherit our territory, anyway.” He bent down, picked up another rock. “I don’t think I need to get married if he does.”

“What would you do then?”

“Become a knight.” Sylvain sat up then, watched Felix. The soft sunlight made his dark hair shine. He couldn’t see Felix’s face from where he was sitting, and he wondered what kind of expression he was wearing.

“Knights still need to learn to dance.” Sylvain had said it like it was a fact, but truth be told, he had no idea what knights needed to learn. He stood, tapped Felix’s shoulder. He turned, an eyebrow raised. “I can teach you if you’re too embarrassed to get an actual instructor.” Sylvain expected a protest, but Felix had just sighed.

“Fine,” he said, “teach me to dance.”

Sylvain took Felix’s hands in his, placing one on his shoulder and keeping the other in a loose grip. “I’m going to lead first, and then you can lead after.” He moved his right foot forward, nudged Felix’s. “Move it back,” he instructed. “Step back when I step forward, and forward when I step back.”

It was choppy at first, taking a moment for them to get in sync. But Felix was a quick learner and soon they were waltzing themselves across the grass, their laughter the only music needed. 

“My turn to lead,” Felix said. He put his hand on Sylvain’s waist.

Sylvain’s heart jumped. They began the dance again. It was the first time he’d been led in a dance, and again they became clumsy. It was hard to relinquish the control of the waltz. 

“Sylvain. Stop looking at your feet and let me lead.”

When Sylvain looked up at him, saw how close Felix was, how minuscule the space was between them and how easily it could be overcome, that’s when he felt it. The desire, the need, the just lean forward. To share his first kiss with the most important person in his life.

Felix, who saw him for more than just his Crest. Felix, who tended to his injuries, carried him on his back. Who wrote him long, detailed letters when they were apart just so Sylvain would forget about the distance. 

The feeling of comfort he felt when Felix was with him never went away, and neither did the desire to kiss him. None of the kisses Sylvain shared with any number of faceless women would ever live up to the idealization of a kiss with Felix.

—

For Felix, the feelings came much slower.

He used to follow Sylvain around when they were kids, a second shadow, always wanting to be included in whatever he was up to. To Felix, it had started out as a friendship so all-consuming that it was as though Sylvain was just an extension of himself. And it had stayed that way, all through childhood and up to the Tragedy of Duscar and Glenn’s death.

Sylvain had been there, while Felix was mourning his dead brother. He had come into Felix’s dark, quiet room and sat by the bed. He took Felix’s hand… held it, in both of his. There were no more tears left in Felix to cry, so they just sat in the silence. Felix’s eyes were red and puffy and Sylvain kept looking like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to. Felix didn’t need Sylvain to say anything though; it was enough for him just to be there.

That was the last night Felix had allowed himself to be comforted.

And even through all that, the all-consuming friendship, the dancing lesson by the pond, the night of silence and comfort, Felix had not fallen in love. But when they both came to Garreg Mach, things changed. He wasn’t sure what was different, what had changed, but the distinct feeling of something settled and made home in his chest.

It came all at once. That friendship had turned into something Felix didn’t want to waste words on. Though it was still all-consuming. At that exact moment, Felix is laying in his bed and thinking about Sylvain. Again.

What an idiot he had been today. Ogling Sylvain as his lips closed around that damn fork. A complete fool.

And now he lays in bed, still just as much an idiot, thinking about it. Replaying it over and over again as if it were a truly, viciously sexy thing and not just another man eating. He grabs the plump pillow positioned behind his head and instead shoves it into his face, groaning. 

A knock at his door startles him, makes him jump and hit the top of his head against the wall. “I’m coming,” he calls. He makes it clear in those two words what a complete inconvenience it is that someone is at his door. It’s probably Dimitri, who would be the last person he wanted to see. Or perhaps Annette, who wouldn’t be so bad. The floorboards creak as they settle beneath his weight when he stands and makes his way to the door of his dorm.

Sylvain’s face greets him, a crooked smile on his lips and his eyes bright and mischievous.

Felix is undone. 

There’s this thing about Sylvain— he has an ability to always look perfect and put together. Flawless. Even in his casual clothes, a plain, long sleeved shirt and simple trousers, Sylvain looks like a noble. As for Felix, he’d already taken his hair out of its signature bun. It cascaded down his shoulders and tangled at the ends. He didn’t feel like brushing through it before he laid down, but suddenly he was wishing he had. And his clothes were crumpled, mussed from the mattress.

“Were you asleep?” Sylvain inquires.

“Nearly.” Felix spits the lie. “What do you want?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Can I come in?” and nudges his foot over the threshold between the hallway and Felix’s dorm. As if it is a guarantee Felix will move aside and let him in.

Felix moves aside and lets him in. 

“This better be good,” he says as Sylvain plops on his bed. He can’t imagine why Sylvain would make a point of visiting him so late in the night. They had lessons in the morning.

“I was just thinking,” Sylvain starts, “about when we were little, and you didn’t know how to dance.”

Felix knows what he’s talking about; in Gautier territory, by the pond near Sylvain’s family home. Felix hadn’t known how to waltz then, but Sylvain had already begun lessons in anticipation for his eventual marriage.

“I remember.” Felix started his own dancing lessons after Glenn’s death. An attempt to make things seem normal when all of Faerghus was still grieving over their lost king and queen.

“Well, I was worried. That you still didn’t know.” He throws his smile Felix’s way. “And we’re having a ball at the end of the month.”

Felix rolls his eyes. Of course the ball was on Sylvain’s mind. A chance to dance with as many women as he pleased? Why wouldn’t Sylvain be interested in that? “I’m aware. I know there’s a ball.” The annoyance was clear.

“Why are you so mad? Is it because you’re worried you’re going to embarrass yourself?” Sylvain popped up from the bed. Again, the floorboards creaked. “Don’t worry Felix; I wouldn’t let a friend of mine make a fool of himself in front of so many ladies.” He places a hand on Felix’s shoulder, still smiling that crooked grin. It is infuriating.

It is endearing.

“We can practice, if you’d like.”

It takes a moment for Felix to register exactly what Sylvain had said. “Practice?” he scoffs. “I know how to dance.” He knocks Sylvain’s hand away, but doesn’t take a step back. There is so little space between them that their chests are almost touching. 

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?” Now Felix does take a step back. “What do you mean _‘prove it’_?”

Sylvain crosses his arms, shifts his weight to his right foot. “Look at it from my perspective. The Felix I remember couldn’t dance to save his life. Why should I just believe you when you say,” his voice changes, attempting Felix’s cadence and tone, “‘I know how to dance.’”

“That didn’t sound a bit like me.” But Felix can’t help it; his lips turn up at the corners. He sighs and relaxes his shoulders. “Fine. I’ll prove it.” He closes the space between him, right hand settling on Sylvain’s waist. 

“Woah, you’re leading?” Felix’s left hand takes Sylvain’s right. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t the point to teach _me_ how to waltz? You don’t expect the girls to lead me around the dance floor, do you?”

Sylvain hesitantly settles his open hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Okay, lead the way,” he says. To Felix’s ears, he sounds kind of breathless, winded. Felix steps forward, beginning the dance.

And immediately is met with Sylvain’s unmoving foot. “Sylvain.” The name comes out through clenched teeth. 

“Oh, sorry.” He laughs and steps back. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.” Felix sighs.

“You’re hopeless.” But he doesn’t sound annoyed. 

—

Sylvain is hopeless. 

With Felix’s hand on his waist, their heads so close together that their breath mingles in the open space, Felix’s eyes fixed on his face, Sylvain is completely hopeless. His cheeks begin to heat up. He’s more than a little shocked that he’s still capable of blushing, considering how many women he’d been with in his nineteen years. But with Felix moving him across the creakiest floorboards he’d ever heard, anything was possible. 

“You should really get those fixed,” Sylvain says as they turn. The floor cries out in pain.

“Shut up,” Felix replies. Sylvain isn’t so oblivious that he doesn’t notice that the malice in the words don’t reach Felix’s tone.

“You’re having fun.” 

He watches Felix as his brown eyes blink. “Is that a problem?”

“I just didn’t think you were capable of fun.”

Felix stops abruptly, dropping his hand. Sylvain’s heart sinks. He begins to open his mouth, maybe to apologize or perhaps to make the situation worse.

“It’s your turn to lead.”

Shadows move along the walls as the moon rises higher and higher in the sky. Time passes minute by minute, hour by hour, but inside of the dorms, time does not exist. Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Sylvain Jose Gautier don’t exist— they shed their titles and their nobility ceases to be. They are just Felix and Sylvain, just two men who have known each other their entire lives, falling deeper in love while being oblivious to the other’s feelings. And they dance. They dance for as long as they want, because time doesn’t exist in their bubble.

And the ball at the end of the month doesn’t exist, because there is no end of the month. There is only now. Time will begin when they allow it.

—

The ballroom is ornately decorated and brightly lit, students dressed in their best clothes and twirling with their dance partners. Felix stands against the wall, watching. He watches as Professor Byleth is led onto the floor by none other than Professor Hannerman and wonders if Dimitri is watching, too, and how his childish crush is making him feel. His eyes slide along the bodies to find Dimitri leading a girl from the Golden Deer house in dance, his expression polite while hers looks panicked. Felix can’t see himself joining in the festivities anytime soon, not when his desired dance partner has already had three different dances with three different girls. All in under an hour, each time leaning in to whisper something secret into their ears and making their faces flood with red.

It angers him that he is unable to take his eyes away from the redhead making his way through the entire female student body. It angers him that Sylvain has yet to so much as spare Felix a glance. 

He had thought that, perhaps, after the night in his room, things would change. He can’t shake the way Sylvain had looked at him, candlelight playing across his face as they danced and laughed. Perhaps the girls wouldn’t matter. Perhaps there was something here. Something more than just a lifelong friendship.

Childish. Felix had been childish. He’d been childish in a way he hadn’t been in years; a hopeful kind, a dreaming kind. Well, he won’t make that mistake again. It was time to let these feelings blow away in the wind. 

With a sigh, Felix pushes off of the wall, sliding out of the ballroom unnoticed. The outside sky is dark, torches lighting the walkways. He can still hear the music, but it’s muffled enough that it doesn’t grate on Felix’s nerves. Gratefully, he breathes a deep breath of cool air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

Would anyone even notice if he left? If Felix just...walks back to his dorm and abandons this pointless party, would he be missed? 

His feet move on their own accord. Fine, he decided. He’ll go on a walk around the monastery. A walk, and then he’d come back. He moves in a familiar direction. He would know the path blindfolded.

Felix enters the training grounds and all stress leaves his body. He picks up a training sword and moves into the room, limbs moving automatically into position. Stupid Sylvain. He swings the sword— anger floods his movements, grace long gone. Stupid girls; how do they hold Sylvain’s attention so well? What is it about them that appeals to idiot men? Girls have never tickled Felix’s fancy. Their soft, round faces and long lashes and plump lips have never made him feel any differently. But men?

That is a different story. Everything about men kicks Felix’s heart into overdrive. The facial structure, the large hands, the smell. The collarbones… especially the collarbones. 

And, of course, Sylvain. All of those things about Sylvain. Long eyelashes were appealing, Felix supposed, when they were on Sylvain’s face. 

He throws the sword down, letting it clatter against the cement of the floor. With a shakey breath, he sinks to his knees. His hands grab at his long hair and pull. The soft pain is comforting; it’s something he can control. Felix cannot control his feelings about Sylvain, and he cannot control how Sylvain feels or how he dances with girls without sparing Felix a glance or thought, but he can control when he hurts, how he hurts, and when he lets go.

—

Five Years Later… 

The world is chaos; blood soaks into the earth as limbs are hacked off of their owners. Soldiers cry out in pain as they fall to their knees. This is the reality of war, the consequence of what Edelgard had started only five years ago, though it feels like it has been many more years than that. The images of the dead and dying will be burned into Sylvain’s mind for the rest of his life… if he manages to survive until the end.

He moves quickly out of the way of a swinging axe, alerted to it by a battle cry leaving the wielder’s mouth. The blue eyes of the soldier, this man who almost killed him, are wide with fear—as though the only thing that is pushing him to fight, the only thing that is pushing him forward, is the promise of survival. Sylvain doesn’t have time to linger on this thought, because he is fighting to survive, too, and he’s fighting for a king and a future he believes in. He plunges his spear into a gap in the soldier’s armor between the neck and shoulder, squelching as it moves through muscle and sinew. He screws his eyes shut, because he still hasn’t gotten used to seeing blood spurt out of mouths of former classmates or the light leaving their eyes. When he was younger, still a student at the Officer’s Academy, fighting had seemed like just an assignment, something that had to be done to get a good grade. It had been real, then, too; just as real as this battle was, with the same consequences, but it hadn’t been his friends and classmates at the other end of his spear tip. The line of Good and Evil had been clear then.

Sylvain pulls his weapon out of the body, and Caspar von Bergliez hits the dirt at his feet. Sylvain takes several deep breaths— a moment of silence for his fallen, former friend in a chaotic battlefield. And then he moves on, because in war you cannot stop to mourn, you have to keep moving. Mourn after the battle, and mourn for your own fallen warriors, not the enemy’s. Move and fight on. 

Sylvain moves. He keeps fighting. It’s all he can do. 

Across the battlefield, he sees Felix’s back. He watches as Felix gracefully dances out of the way of a blade and swings his own. Though the field is full of noises and Felix is far away, Sylvain swears he can hear the impact of silver against the opposing armor. He is unable to tear his eyes away from Felix as his opponent brings up his shield and pushes Felix away with it. Felix falls back, and Sylvain’s mouth opens in a scream.

And suddenly, Sylvain is on the ground, head bouncing against the hard dirt. His ears are ringing, and he feels a wave of dizziness as he brings his head up. It takes several long seconds for his eyes to focus, and when they do, he sees Ingrid. Her arm is thrown out, protecting him from another soldier. He was so focused on Felix that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own wellbeing.

Ingrid had just saved his life. 

He pushes himself to his knees. And then to his feet. He takes two, wobbly steps and then stands by her side, brandishing his lance in front of him. More than anything, Sylvain wants to find Felix, wants to make sure Felix is still okay, still alive. But he has to push that urge to run to him from his mind. 

Hours later, when the battle is over and the bodies of the fallen are identified, Sylvain finds it impossible to move on. The death of Caspar plays over and over again in his head… Though he knows, now, that Felix had lived, that he had rolled out of the way of a falling blade at just the right moment, Sylvain keeps imagining finding Felix’s bloody, torn apart body on the field. 

More often than not, Sylvain sees the dead when he closes his eyes. Sometimes they are faces without names, but there are nights, especially restless nights, when they have the faces of his friends and comrades. 

In the dining hall, there is a celebration of victory. Sylvain can’t bring himself to go. All he wants to do was take off the armor that weighs down his steps and lay in his bed. And so he lays, and looks at the ceiling, and replays the events of the day in his mind. 

Sometimes, when it’s quiet and he’s alone, Sylvain forgets what he’s fighting for.

—

The dining hall is crowded and filled with noise— plates clattering and laughter. There is drinking, because a celebration means alcohol. Felix’s cup remains full, however. He doesn’t sip, he doesn’t mingle, he just stares unseeingly ahead while others move around him, congratulating each other on another battle won, clapping each other on the shoulders in victory. 

How can they act so damn happy?

He wishes he could jump in and laugh with the rest of them, but he just couldn’t. Pretending was not his strong suit. Neither was joining in with the group. Finally, he lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip, then glances around the room, but his eyes never find who they’re searching for. Sylvain is absent. 

Now that Felix thinks about it, he hadn’t seen Sylvain on the field today, either. This was one of the worst battles they’ve had thus far, and for the first time in a long time, Felix didn’t look for Sylvain. Didn’t glance around the field to make sure he was okay, alive. He was too busy fighting for his own life today.

Felix saw Sylvain after, however. He had been covered in blood, his expression far away and eyes sad. When he noticed Felix looking at him, he had hid behind a smile. “It’s not mine,” he had said, referencing the blood. “That was a good one, huh?” Felix had nodded, wanting to reach out and caress Sylvain’s face, scratch away the dried blood on his cheek. But he couldn’t. He didn’t.

Five years later and that ache for Sylvain hadn’t gone away. It had worsened, in fact, catching Felix by surprise in unexpected moments. He is a pathetic man.

He stands up from the table, abandoning his mostly untouched mug of ale on the wooden table and making his way to the exit of the hall. “You’re leaving?” a voice says behind him. When he turns, he sees Annette. She’s wringing her hands in front of her, green eyes wide and full of concern.

“Just going for a walk,” Felix answers. He gives her a smile, reaches out and pats her head. He’s always had a soft spot for Annette, always admired her sunny disposition and her cheery outlook. Annette smiles, but her eyes don’t change.

“Okay,” she says, “enjoy your walk.” She turns back and heads back into the gathering, glancing back at him. Felix motions for her to go on before turning on himself and heading in the opposite direction, down the stairs and past the greenhouse and to what used to be the dorms back when the partially ruined monastery doubled as an officer’s academy. 

As Felix walks down the hallway, his footsteps are so light that they hardly make any noise as he moves across the old wood. When the war is over, he hopes that Garreg Mach takes students again. It had become his home when Fraldarius Territory began to feel like a strange, unfamiliar land after Glenn’s death. It had become so many of his classmates’ home, as well. Ashe, who had nowhere to go after Lonato’s betrayal. For Ingrid, a safe haven from her father and his marriage expectations of her. A second family of people who accepted you no matter what rude, unsavory things you said, whose heart you broke, or how much blood colored your hands. 

And Sylvain. It always comes back to him. His constant companion, a piece of his life before Glenn’s death and after. The boy who broke his arm trying to show off, who taught him how to dance, who grasped his hand until it turned white when Felix was grieving. Who would jump in front of arrows meant for Felix, who showed up at his dorm room in the middle of the night and spun him in circles for hours.

He was standing outside Sylvain’s door now, unsure what his next move was. Did he knock, or just walk in? Should he just walk away and see him tomorrow when the sun was up and he had a decent night’s rest? Too many things could happen in the dark; Felix is too weak when the sun isn’t watching him.

His arm reaches out, fingers wrapping around the doorknob and turning slowly. It was too late to back out now. The hinges creak as he pushes the door open and the light from the candles that line the hallway creeps into Sylvain’s dark room. The candlelight meets bare feet— Felix’s gaze drags up from the feet to knees, to stomach and shoulders and, finally, Sylvain’s face. He is sitting on the floor against his bed, his legs stretched out before him and head tilted back. His eyes, Felix can see thanks to the hall light, are closed. 

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Felix says. Sylvain’s eyes don’t open, but his face moves to the direction of his voice. 

“Did you bring me something?” he asks. His voice is lighthearted, his tone easy going, but Felix thinks he can hear a strain. He moves fully into Sylvain’s room, easing the door shut behind him. Darkness envelops the two of them; Felix doesn’t move while he waits for his eyes to adjust. 

“No,” Felix answers. “If you don’t come to dinner, you starve.” 

Relief flickers in Felix’s stomach when Sylvain chuckles. “You sound like my father.” Sylvain shuffles; Felix can hear the sound of his clothes rustling against the floorboards. “If you didn’t bring me food, what brings you to my humble little room? Was the party boring?”

He considers lying, telling him that he wanted to rub in his face how delicious the food from tonight was, how funny Annette’s jokes had been, how Mercedes’s smile lit up the night. But they could die in battle tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. This war is far from over, and there are hundreds of scenarios, hundreds of missteps, that leads to one, or both, of them dying. “I wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?” Again, Sylvain moves. His voice sounds slightly closer. Felix’s eyes have adjusted just a little bit, allowing him to see the outline of Sylvain’s body. “Are you sure you’re Felix and not an imposter?” 

He’s still trying to feign lightheartedness, and Felix doesn’t grace him with an answer. Instead, it’s his turn to move. He takes just two steps forward and stands directly in front of Sylvain, placing his right hand on the top of his head. Slowly, he trails his hand to Sylvain’s shoulder as blood rushes in his ears. He’s trying to show Sylvain that his hand is near, that he can reach out and grab it, but he’s aware of how intimate this gesture seems. Like a lover’s caress. He lets his hand drop from Sylvain’s shoulder, holding it out into empty air, palm towards the ceiling. 

“Dance with me,” Felix says.

It is not a suggestion; it is a demand. An order. In the five years that have passed since the Garreg Mach Ball, since the Empire’s war began, they had become soldiers, and, as soldiers, they are wired to follow orders. Clammy fingers close around Felix’s, and he hoists Sylvain off the floor.

“You lead,” Sylvain says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189672212@N03/50215154821/in/dateposted-public/)

Closing the small gap between them, Felix wraps both of his arms around Sylvain’s waist. Sylvain breathes in, and Felix thinks it sounds like he’s choking on a sob. He doesn’t want to think about that. Sylvain didn’t cry when his brother dragged him by the hair or when he fell from trees… he couldn’t be crying now. His shoulders curl in on themselves, his forehead meeting Felix’s shoulder. The fabric of Felix’s shirt slowly dampens as Felix rocks them back and forth, left to right.

It isn’t a traditional dance; not how one would dance with a bride on their wedding night, but it is much more personal than the other times they have danced together. Felix closes his eyes, resting the tip of his nose against Sylvain’s temple. His breath moves through Sylvain’s hair, and Felix considers pressing a kiss against his cheek. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189672212@N03/50215154811/in/dateposted-public/)  


“Were you actually worried about me?” Sylvain asks, voice slightly muffled against Felix’s shoulder. 

“Is that so hard to believe?” He tightens his hold around Sylvain. “I can worry.”

“It just doesn’t seem like you.”

“Sylvain,” Felix starts, pulling back and nudging Sylvain’s head up so that they’re looking at each other. He can see enough to see Sylvain’s eyes, the tears that he didn’t want to believe were real. Their chests are pressed against each other so tightly that Felix can feel the rise and fall of Sylvain’s, their faces so close that Sylvain’s breath tickles his face. “I always worry about you.” 

He isn’t sure who moves towards the other first. Maybe it was him, because he has been desperate to do this for years, desperate to feel Sylvain’s practiced lips against his. Or perhaps Sylvain closed the distance— his hand was tangled in Felix’s hair, after all, pressing him against Sylvain’s mouth. 

It was entirely possible that they moved towards each other at the same time, that they both were driven to action by built up, pent up, desire. Their lips move against each other’s, Felix’s hands fisting in Sylvain’s shirt as he tries to pull him closer, closer, closer. As close as he can possibly get. 

Sylvain pulls back a moment to take a breath of air, but Felix hasn’t had enough yet. He pulls him back down, his teeth biting Sylvain’s lip and pulling it into his mouth. Victory floods through him when he feels Sylvain shudder against him, when he feels nails digging into the skin at his hip. The back of Sylvain’s knees meet the mattress, and he tumbles onto the bed, bringing Felix down with him, on top of him. 

They get lost in each other, hands exploring and lips kissing and voices whispering promises and questions and affirmations, only stopping when Sylvain pulls away and Felix realizes that his lips have been kissed raw. He’s panting and his throat is dry, and he has to force his hands to stay at his sides, to not reach for Sylvain again and pull him back down.

Felix opens his mouth to speak at the same time Sylvain does. 

“Sorry,” Sylvain says as Felix breathes, “You go first.”

Sylvain chuckles and Felix clears his throat… they both wait for the other to speak, not wanting to interrupt each other for a third time. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” Felix says. Sylvain laughs, grabs his hand. His fingers trace over callouses and scars, new and old. 

“I dream about your hands,” he says.

“Don’t use your pick up lines on me,” Felix snorts. Outside, the sky has lightened just a touch, signaling the nearness of morning. Of a new day. Felix can see Sylvain clearly now, see the way he looks at his hands, at his mouth. It makes him shiver. “I should go,” he says. He doesn’t move. “It’s getting late.”

“Or,” Sylvain says, laying down on the mattress and patting the space next to him. “You could stay. Get a few hours of sleep with me.”

He doesn’t fight him, just lays down and allows Sylvain to pull him into his arms. It takes until that moment for Felix to realize that his eyes are heavy, that sleep is just moments away from pulling him under. Sylvain plants kisses along his brow line, then his jaw, and Felix tilts his head in the directions of his lips. They meet in a slow, lazy kiss. 

Felix doesn’t know what the new day will look like— when they’ll go into battle next and fight for their lives and their king, or when the war will end. The unknowns are insurmountable, but Felix takes solace in the fact that he will find himself in this room again, arm outstretched and asking Sylvain for a dance.

It’s enough for now


End file.
